Snowflakes
by Ria
Summary: At the very end all one can do is think, after all. Think.


**Author:** Ria   
**Disclaimer:** Never been mine, isn't mine, never will be mine.   
**Rating:** PG-13   
**Pairing:** Harry/Draco   
**Spoilers:** General spoilers   
**Summary:** At the very end all one can do is think, after all. Think.   
**Notes:** For Aja's Season Challenge on the Armchair. 

**

Snowflakes

**

_

Because I am an officer and a gentleman they have given me my notebooks, pen, ink and paper. So I write and wait.   
-- Jennifer Johnston, How Many Miles to Babylon?  


_

I stare outside at the frozen landscape that stretches for miles. White, endless, dead. Here and there, skinny trees poke up from the thick blanket of snow, their thin, malnourished arms reaching vainly towards the pale sky, as if begging for redemption. Begging to be released from this torment. I stare out at it and feel nothing. 

Today is Christmas Eve. Today, I am twenty-three. Today, I will die. 

At the beginning, when I was first placed in here, I contemplated sitting down and writing, of putting quill to parchment and writing down my life. But the idea was soon banished, as I quickly realised how boring a tale it would be. No one needs to know my life... no one _wants_ to know. Perhaps one day I will be in the history books, and students will doze as they hear my name in Binns' wheezing voice, uncaring. After all, who really wants to know the name and life of someone who's been dead for years? 

No, there is no point in writing down my life, for no one would read it. I am a Malfoy. That's all that matters. That's all that's ever mattered. 

There were four of us here. Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy, and myself. Now there is only me. I'm no fool; I know the others are gone. Potter -- I can't bring myself to call him Harry, not anymore -- came for them, his face pale, grim, and _angry_. I know he hated them, know he thought they deserved what they were about to get. He probably hates me. It wouldn't be surprising. 

Pansy went first, arrogant and haughty. We saw the fear anyway, and I know Potter ignored it, instead focusing on the arrogance so he could hate her more. I think less of him for that. Crabbe and Goyle went next, together -- of that I'm glad. They could comfort each other a lot better than I could. I hope it was quick. They were afraid, but they refused to hide it, and somehow they seemed more _noble_ than Pansy, as they weren't afraid to let it be known they _were_ afraid. 

It's been five days since they left, and solitude is driving me out of my mind. 

I have no visitors -- obviously -- apart from Potter, who brings my meals and leaves in silence. He's ignoring me deliberately, though I've started chattering when he comes, just to bother him. It works; his eyes flash in annoyance when I open my mouth and start jabbering on about the most obscene topic I can think of. I've made a list, so I'm always ready for when he arrives. It's not like I've anything better to do. 

But sometimes I want to scream and catch him by the shoulders. Shake him in the hope that I'll get some kind of response from him, other than infinite coldness. But I never succumb to the urge. Potter has no _right_ to demand that kind of reaction from me. No right whatsoever. So I clench my hands and press them to my sides, as I talk and he stays behind walls of oppressive ice. It makes for charming conversation. 

There's nothing much to do here for the other countless hours Potter isn't here. I've given up walking (I've worn many holes in the carpet, and have no wish to create anymore), and mostly spend my time thinking. Thinking. I never realised just how much of it I did before, and how much it can make one go nearly insane. Constantly working the mind, analysing and reanalysing things until your head positively _aches_, and you just can't think anymore. Perhaps one's private hell really is in their mind. 

I spend much of my time just looking outside. I've the landscape outside my window memorised completely. I could probably turn away and prattle everything off in minutes. A weak victory, but considering everything else I have to entertain myself, it's a very nice victory indeed. Lately, I've been watching how the snow falls and covers the land. It's different every day -- something always happens during the night to change it -- and I've become fascinated by it. Winter has always fascinated me, and let's face it, I've nothing better to do. Perhaps I should have asked Potter for a sketch-pad and charcoal (if there was any) to see what I could have come up with. 

Of course, that's all over, now, since I die today. I feel no sadness, no rage at the thought. Merely an empty acceptance. At least I won't have to put up with being bored out of my mind anymore. But I won't be able to do anything either, so it's a mixed blessing. Everyone else I knew has died; it only seems natural that I'll be next. Apparently it'll be a major turning point when I'm gone. Hah. Not likely. They won't listen, no matter how many times I tell them Voldemort had little or no trust in me, and thus never trusted me with anything of any great importance. The war will never have a turning point until Voldemort is done away with, and that's not going to happen anytime soon. 

There's no heating in this Godforsaken room, so I'm wrapped up in my cloak and robes (ignoring the fact they're about as warm as ice) when Potter arrives. There's no meal in his hands, and I know my time has come. I sit up straighter, meeting his eyes directly. They're blank, and I want to hit him for having such a hollow stare. Though that's stupid. He didn't care when it was Pansy's turn, or Crabbe and Goyle's. Why should he care that it's mine? But I want him to, and I hate myself for it. 

Father warned me that, should this ever happen, I was never to let the family or the cause down. I was to be aloof, critical, cold, and haughty. I was to be disdainful of those around me, and accept my fate graciously. So that's what I'm doing, even though I don't really give a damn either way. 

But there was one very important thing Father never knew. He never knew that, at one time, I knew Potter very, very well. Back when I called him Harry, and didn't consider him an annoying prat that always beat me in everything I considered important. I had the ability to make him shiver and gasp, to shudder as release swept through him. I saw him bite his lip to avoid screaming, as his body trembled. I saw him sigh as his body curled against me, and I watched him while he fell asleep. 

And somewhere along the line I fell for him. Fell head over heels for him. I still can't believe it really happened, but it did. 

Then the war came in a swirl of rage and chaos, and he forgot that fact as family and honour led me to Voldemort's side, whether I wanted to or not. He began to hate me, and I had no choice but to accept that. And ignore every instinct that was screaming inside me to show him his conclusions were _wrong_. But I let it be. If I didn't, then Voldemort would find out and he would destroy us both. 

Do I have regrets, now that I'm about to die? You bet. 

He's impatient, I can see it clearly. His arms are folded tightly, and he's begun to tap a foot against the carpet, his face telling me to move. Now. But before I do, I find my gaze drifting to the window. It's begun to snow. Snowflakes drift lazily down to the ground, joining with the rest of the frozen whiteness. I watch them, mesmerised, not hearing anything Potter snaps at me. Snowflakes, not one of them like the other. I'm talking before I realise it, and Potter stops speaking immediately. 

"Look at the snowflakes, Potter. All of them, and not one like the other," I whisper, eyes glued to the window. I can feel him watching me. "We're like them, you know. Snowflakes, both of us. We're completely unique in this world. When we're gone, they'll never again see any like us again." 

He's silent for a moment, but I can still feel his gaze on me. Then he begins to speak. The first time he's actually replied to anything I've said since I came here. "You're right, though that was just a stupid thing to say." I smile faintly; he would think like that. 

"They'd never kill me tomorrow," I go on, not focusing on anything except the falling snow, my eyes locked on it. "The day's far too special for that. Too special to end Draco Malfoy's life. But they say Christ was born tonight, not tomorrow, so they're ruining it either way." A bitter smile. "Bastards. All of them." 

Silence, and then, "I'm sorry. About everything." 

"There's no point in saying that, as you don't mean it," I reply flatly, my sombre mood quickly dissipating. He would ruin it. "You're not sorry that I'm going to die, or that my friends died. You're not sorry about any of it, and I know you think I deserve what's going to happen to me. And neither of us can change the way you think, so don't even bother saying something you don't mean. It's not worth it." I turn to look at him, then, and I'm inwardly shocked to see how hurt he appears. How ironic, considering if this war ever ends he'll be the hero, while I'll be a forgotten name in an unmarked grave. But then, most of my life has been about irony. 

He doesn't deserve to be hurt. _I'm_ the one who's going to die. _I'm_ the one who's lost everything. He has no bloody right to be sorry or hurt. No right at all. 

My eyes narrow, and I push myself abruptly up to a standing position. "Let's just get this over with, shall we?" I drawl, shoving my fear and uneasiness to the back of my mind. If he wants forgiveness for what's he's just realised, he's not going to get it from me. It's too late for that. Far too late. 

"Wait. I--" 

"Save it." Anger radiates from me in hostile waves. I brush past him, and he has no choice but to follow. 

It's the cold that hits me the moment I step outside, the bitter, numbing cold that causes me to stagger, body hunched as if to protect myself, head bent down. My eyes water, my teeth ache, and my cheeks go promptly insensate. Burrowing my hands into my armpits, I try to ignore the fact that my clothes are too tattered to withstand the cold, and if they don't kill me first, the cold most certainly will. I'm shivering and can't stop. I feel Potter's hands grip my shoulders in an attempt to steady me, and I jerk myself away. I'll accept no pity from him. 

Preparing myself, I take a deep, burning breath and start walking, the wind whipping through my clothes like they're rags. Which they basically are, when I think about it. If Mother and Father could see me now. Every step takes an effort, but I eventually make my way to a sheltered part of the ruined east side. It's a crumbling wall, but stops the wind in some way and that's good enough for me. Crouching against it, I try and stop my teeth from chattering. For my efforts, all I get is a bitten tongue. 

He stands before me; I can see his battered boots. No finery for our famed hero, who insists on being like everyone else. Idiot. He'll never be the same. Never. Even he deludes himself by believing it. He'll soon learn. But I won't be there when he does. 

Neither of us say anything immediately, and I can't help but notice he's shivering as well. He breaks the silence first, though it's not really a silence; the wind howls around us and snow whirls, cloaking us in fine, cold white. I can't actually see Potter anymore, since the snow's clogged in my eyelashes, effectively blinding me momentarily. I can't find the energy to wipe it off. Each snowflake is like a cool kiss of death, and I raise my head, eyes closed, feeling every kiss as it lands on my frozen face. 

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, and I frown, ready to snap at him about saying sorry. I never get the chance, however, as he steps forward and kisses me. Lips meet mine, just as cold, just as frozen. They're chapped, too, so the kiss is anything but smooth, but neither of us care. I'm stunned at first, unable to think or do anything, simply standing there as he kisses me. Our breath warms as we lean against each other, our deadened hands clumsily reaching to each other as we attempt to somehow keep balance. 

It hits me in a blur that _he's kissing me_, and I'm responding before I can help it, lips brushing against his, breath gasping in misted clouds. The wind tosses our cloaks around us and the snow swirls, effectively ensuring that we can't completely enjoy this kiss, but we hardly notice. And, oh God, I've missed him. Things may have gone completely wrong for us, but I've never truly forgotten what it was like. But this is the last time. 

We break apart and stare at each other, unable to speak. His hands are still around mine, and I realise he's wearing gloves. I, of course, am not. The sentenced can never have the luxury of warm hands, though it seems he's trying to rectify that unspoken law. 

"I'm sorry," he whispers again, one of his hands reaching into his right pocket. I stare blankly as he withdraws his wand, and then comprehension rushes at me almost as fast as the cold did. 

I know what he's going to do, and I'm willing. It's better than having to look at them as it happens. I nod. "Do it." 

Hesitation fills his eyes for a moment, before he nods firmly. His breath quickens, but his grip never falters. Now that the time has come, I find something fluttering in my stomach. I don't know if it's fear, excitement, or anguish. He leans close to me, whispers three words that make me want to weep, before he steps back. I see him gather his composure, visibly pull himself back together. His face is pale -- save for two spots of colour on his cheeks -- and blank, a handsome mask. He raises his wand, pointing it straight at my chest. 

They'll be outraged, when they find out. They'll tell him he gave me the easy way out, that my death wasn't bad enough for the punishment of my crimes. They'll think I didn't suffer enough. Either way, I'll end up dead, so I don't see the point of raising such a fuss. I'll be dead. That's all that really matters. 

Maybe it could have ended differently. Maybe it couldn't. But, right now, there's no other way. 

Harry speaks it clearly, his voice strong. No hint of the grief I can see in his eyes. And that's it. 

When green storms at me -- not Slytherin green, I find myself thinking -- I am as ready as I'll ever be. There's no time to smile at him, no time to return three words, no time to move or breathe. When it hits, I stumble and fall backwards, feeling the snow tumble around me, feeling every icy kiss on my cheeks. I land on a bed of soft, cold, merciless white that cradles my fall. 

I succumb to the darkness. It's finally over. 


End file.
